Lessons
by DisenchantedDestroya
Summary: Three lessons that Dean Winchester has taught his baby brother. Including toddler!Sammy, scared!Sammy and hungover!Sammy. Pointless fluff.


**1.**

Three-year-old Sammy Winchester wants to be a drawer when he's older, or an artist as Dean had told him it was called. He likes drawing dogs with wagging tails, his daddy with a big smile on his face, his big brother with an even bigger smile on his face, angels with wings bigger than their bodies, cars that can zoom even faster than even Dean can run.

He's drawing right now, sat cross-legged on the grotty carpet with his tongue poked out in concentration and a red Crayola in his hand. Dean is sat on the couch behind him watching the morning cartoons with one green eye and his baby brother with the other. He's a whole seven years old; he's a big boy now and big boy's look after their baby brothers. He watches as Sammy swaps the red crayon for a grass-green one and then proceeds to scribble fiercely onto the piece of paper with such violence that Dean's surprised the paper hasn't been worn away into nothing.

Little Sammy looks at his drawing and frowns. Yes, the chunky scribbles do somewhat resemble the Winchester boys' current abode but it looks nothing like a home. That's what he's trying to draw for Dean; their home. He grabs a bright yellow crayon and draws a great big coloured-in circle in the upper left corner and then draws lots of little lines coming out from it. It's meant to be a sunshine, the kind that Sammy always puts in his pictures to make them look happy, but even this has done nothing to improve his drawing. He huffs and fights back the feeling of wanting to burst into hysterical, exhausted tears.

"What's up, Sammy?" Dean calls from the couch, having been able to hear his baby bro's pitiful little sniffles. "One of your crayons snap again? I'll tape it back together for you."

Sam picks up his drawing and trundles over to Dean like a human tornado, then clambers up to sit next to his awesome big brother. The couch is hard and it smells funny but it's better than what they get in some places they stay in.

Blushing, he holds out the drawing to Dean. Dean takes it with a smile; he is very much aware of Sam's ambitions to be a 'drawer' and he'll do everything in his power to encourage the kid. He takes in the small red box of a building in the centre of the page, something that looks vaguely like a broken window and the messy mop of patchy grass (weeds?) surrounding the red box. He notices the great big sunshine with a grin. The sunshine is like Sammy's way of signing his masterpieces.

"This is great, Kiddo!" He gushes as he ruffles Sammy's curly mop of hair. "Why do you look so down about it?"

"Tis shit."

"Sam!" Dean's trying not to laugh, knows that he needs to sound cross so that Sammy won't use that word again. "Where'd you learn that word?"

"Daddy." Sam pauses to think, his chin cupped in his hand, doing his best thinking face. "And you. Is bad word?"

"Yes. Very bad."

"Oh."

Dean nods, making a mental note not to repeat things his dad says in front of Sammy anymore, lest the kid starts repeating them too. He turns his attention back to the scruffy crayon drawing and tries to decipher what is so wrong with it that it's put a bee in Sammy's bonnet.

The toddler points at the drawing with a chubby hand and makes a noise of distaste, trying to convey to his big brother that it's all wrong.

"So, what's up with it?"

"S'pposed to be home." Sam mumbles, mashing his knuckles together in his lap in an adorable act of nervousness. "Doesn't look like home." All of a sudden a smile pounces onto Sammy's face with the brightness of a lightbulb being turned on and he tugs insistently on Dean's sweater's sleeve. "Teach me, De! Teach me! De! Teach me!"

The big brother regards the drawing in relation to the request and ponders how, with his somewhat limited artistic ability, he could make it look more like Sam's idea of home.

"Go get me your black crayon, Kiddo."

Sammy nods in a way that says he'd do anything for his big brother and he slides off of the couch, stumbles on his tiny legs and then toddles over to his small mountain of crayons. He crouches down in that weird way that young children do, with their knees bent out at almost right-angles and their butts pushed out, not quite touching the ground, kind of like they're trying to lay an egg.

He looks meticulously through his crayons, pushing aside the grey and the pink and the blue, until he finally finds the holy grail that is the black. He stares at it for a moment as though making sure that this is definitely what his big brother asked him for, nods and then goes as fast as his pudgy little legs will carry him back to the couch.

The crayon is thrust into Dean's hand and Sammy stands in front of him, little baby hands gripping onto Dean's jean-clad knees. Dean smiles his thanks and then gets to work, drawing lines and circles over the top of the existing drawing.

When he is satisfied with his work, he turns it around and shows it to Sammy. Sammy looks like he's never seen anything so perfect in his life. There, on the page stood outside the building are three stick figures. There's a small one in the middle, a medium one on the left and a big one on the right.

"That's home, Sammy." He says, sounding way too old for his physical appearance. "Wherever you, me and Daddy are."

Sammy snatches the crayon and paper back then scribbles another stick figure seemingly standing in the sky. He pauses, looks at Dean as though for inspiration, and then he adds scribbles that could maybe wings onto it.

"Mommy too?"

"Yeah, Kiddo. Mommy too."

**0000**

**2.**

"De, I'm scared."

The addressed looks away from the television screen to his nine-year-old brother, who is currently stood at the foot of the stair's in this month's shit-hole house, draped in a blanket and drowning in Dean's hand-me-down Batman pyjamas. Dean reaches for the remote and flicks off the T.V., deciding that having Godzilla on in the background is less than likely to aid him in comforting his little brother.

He makes a 'come here' gesture with his hand and he doesn't think he's ever seen Sammy move so fast. Before he's even had time to blink he's got a lapful of trembling kid, two spindly arms locked tightly around his neck. Whatever it is that's happened, the poor boy is clearly in some high degree of stress about it.

Dean reaches into his back pocket and relaxes as he feels the handle of his silver pocket knife. He's not sure what's wrong, but if it's something supernatural he'll be ready for it. Worse comes to worse, he knows where John keeps the guns.

"What's wrong?" He asks, trying to sound like his dad does when he interviews witnesses of monsters. "Is there something up in your room?"

"N-no." Sam looks away, ashamed. "I just... it's dark, y'know?"

"You're scared of the dark?"

Sam nods shyly, red rising high on his cheeks. He curses himself for being so goddamn weak; he bets Dean would never be so scared of something so stupid. Hell, he's willing to bet the entire contents of his piggy bank (four dollars and nineteen cents, the most he's ever managed to save) that Dean has never been afraid of anything ever.

The older brother feels ashamed. How could he not know that Sammy had a fear like that? Of course, they normally go to bed at the same time so maybe that makes a difference to Sam's phobia, but he still feels like he should know something so trivial.

"Wish I was like you." Sam mumbles and Dean raises an eyebrow, wondering if this is what it's like to have a kid of your own. "You're not scared of nothing."

"I'm scared of you or Dad getting hurt." Dean replies immediately, fighting the urge to retain himself in such a light in his baby brother's eyes. He loves Sam's hero-worship. "I'm terrified of flying."

"But, Dean, you've never been on a plane before in your entire life!"

"Good. Let's keep it that way." He grumbles and then winks conspiratorially at his little brother. "Tell anyone I told ya that and I'll shave your head as you sleep."

Sam tries to laugh but it comes out sounding hollow and Dean knows that he's still got some work to do here. He can remember being nine, how the world is just fully opening up to you and you don't know whether that's a good thing or a bad thing but something inside you tells you it can't be both at the same time. It was at that age that Dean had decided he was scared of flying after hearing about a terrible plane crash on the morning news, all passengers dead.

He shudders at that memory and pulls himself into the present, focussing on how to help his kid brother. He wonders what his dad would do if he were here instead of 'collecting intel' at the local bar but then stops that line of thought; John Winchester would most likely give Sammy a rifle just in case something supernatural is wrong up there, a shot of Jack Daniels to help the kid go back to sleep, tell him to man-up and then send Sam back up to bed. Whilst Dean loves his father, he's not willing to follow his example in this case.

"D'you know what I do when I get scared?" Sammy shakes his head, looking up at Dean with wide, doleful eyes. "I think of all my favourite things. Like the Impala and you and Dad and guns and movies and all the hot girls at school."

Sam takes a moment to feel touched at making Dean's list of favourite things and then looks at Dean doubtfully.

"Does it work?"

"Would I tell you about it if it didn't?"

"You told me spaghetti's made of worms." Sam informs him indignantly, still clinging to his big brother. "And you told me that the dinner you made last night didn't have chillies in it."

"Yeah, but, Dude, this is totally different."

Dean makes his little brother lock eyes with him and tries to convey his honesty through that medium. Sam's eyes looks full of fearful innocence and a need to trust; Dean's look older than they should but so full of unconditional love that they almost look young again. They are the eyes of a father, Sammy thinks.

The older ruffles Sammy's hair with a gentle hand, an act born more of affection in this case than teasing and looks back at Sam's face. He can see that there is no doubt there now.

"So I just think of you and Bobby and Mom and my teddy and baseball and everything won't seem so scary anymore?" Sammy yawns and Dean smiles at him fondly.

"You tell me."

So Sammy thinks. He thinks of Dean cuddling him like he is now. He thinks of Bobby giving him a new book to read. He thinks of the picture he keeps of his mom in the bottom of his duffle bag. He thinks of the teddy bear that Dean gave him for his fourth birthday, the one with the little red bow tie and buttons for eyes. He thinks of the baseball game that Dean took him to see last year and how he wants to do that one day. And, yeah, everything doesn't seem so scary anymore.

"Love you, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean squeezes him, knowing that he's already fallen to the kid's unrelenting affection. "Love you too, Squirt."

**0000**

**3.**

Fifteen-year-old Sam Winchester groans and writhes on his bed, feeling very much like he might be dying. His head is pounding in an annoyingly sporadic manner so that just when he thinks the pain has gone away it comes back and hits him right between the eyes. His stomach keeps threatening him with puke and a few times he has gagged, yet nothing ever comes spewing forth.

The worst part of it though has only just begun. And that part is a smug-looking big brother leaning against the doorway of their shared bedroom, a smirk on his now adult face. It's a smirk that has made many a girl fall and has been the last sight of many a monster.

"Feels glorious, don't it?"

"Am I dying?"

"Nah, just your first hangover, little brother." Dean mimes wiping a sentimental tear from his left eye. "My little boy, all grown up!"

"Dad?"

"He stayed out last night." Now Dean sounds serious, knowing that he has to somehow convey to his little brother that getting plastered at age fifteen isn't the greatest way to deal with your problems. "Lucky for your sorry ass."

"Don't feel too lucky at the moment." He grunts as he shuts his eyes against another assault of nausea. "Dying would be easier than this."

"Well, that's what you get for drinking an entire bottle of Jack on an empty stomach when you've never even tasted beer before, Kiddo." The older shakes his disapprovingly, trying to hide just how terrified he'd been last night. "Damn lucky you didn't need to get your stomach pumped."

Dean thinks back to last night, when he came back from his night at the card table in the local bar to find Sammy puking his guts up with a completely drained bottle of Jack Daniels in hand. By that point the kid had been unable to even keep his head out of the toilet as he puked and had frightened tears streaming down his face. It hadn't taken a lot for Dean to get his brother into some pyjamas and into bed. It had taken him a lot to leave his brother for even a split second, just in case Sammy choked on his own vomit or something.

So now Dean is very much ready to hammer home the point that last night's behaviour was extremely unacceptable. He could've taken it if Sammy had gotten a little bit tipsy but last night? That was borderline suicidal.

"You wanna tell me what that was about?" Sam shakes his head and then pales as the action ignites a fresh pounding in his cranium. "Tough. You're telling me."

Dean strides over to Sam's bed, looking surprisingly fresh for someone who hasn't slept a wink due to keeping a constant vigil over a certain paralytic little brother, and flops down on the edge of it. He looks at Sammy the way he thinks an infuriated father would and forces himself to remember that it's his job to look after Sammy. Which means dealing with situations like this.

"I just... Well... Dad and I had a fight. It was pretty bad, even by our standards." Sam swallows hard and Dean gets the impression that the kid is trying not to cry. "I guess I'd just seen you and Dad drinking a load when you got sad, so I thought it might help." He looks down at his lap and whispers, "Sorry."

"Did it help?" Dean feels like he's been stabbed in the gut by a blunt, rusty knife. His little brother was hurting and he wasn't around to help him deal. "Does it all feel magically better now?"

"No."

"No. I thought not." Dean sighs and runs a hand over his face, suddenly overcome with exhaustion. "Here's a life lesson for ya, Kiddo. Do as I say, not as I do. And right now I'm saying don't drink alcohol to help you deal with your problems." He sighs again and pats Sam's knee in an awkward gesture of affection. "You feel shitty, you talk to me about it, okay? I'm... Well, Sammy, I'm here for you."

Sam and Dean just look at each other, seeing each other in an utterly different light. It's a light that they have both shifted into many times before yet it always strikes them both speechless. It's a good light, a brotherly light, a light that promises them everything will be fine.

"Did we just have a chick-flick moment?" Sam asks jokily, breaking the silence.

"Sure did." Dean's back to smirking and is about to ruffle Sammy's hair when he remembers his brother's horrendous hangover. "Bitch."

"Jerk."

**0000000**

**A/N:**

First off, I'd like to apologise for any grammatical errors. I wrote this on my iPad (using Pages) so auto-correct may have screwed some things up or I may have just not noticed them. So, yeah. Sorry about that.  
I loved writing toddler!Sammy, I based him on my own baby brother and I based drunk!Sammy on myself, having been one the stupid fifteen-year-olds who gets horrifically drunk at her first party. All I can remember from that night is puking in the host's mother's favourite plant pot and crying over how much I love Green Day. A year on, I'm still finding out things I did at that party.

Anywhore, thank you sooooo much for reading this, I hope you liked it and please let me know what you think! :3


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